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b2memB2MeM Challenge: A few prompts inspired this one too!
General Prompts: inspired by Walt Whitman's Song of Myself.
Multi-Age: Idioms & Translations.
Also inspired in part by a picture of a flowery meadow which I am not linking to because of the content of this fic.
Format: Short story - 2500 words
Genre: Slash, PWP
Rating: Explicit Adult
Warnings: Graphic sex
Characters: Beor, Finrod
Pairings: Beor/Finrod
Creators' Notes (optional): Lifetime ambition fulfilled! I've always wanted to write a story based on a certain scene in Walt Whitman's Song of Myself (quoted below).
Summary: Beor and Finrod head vaguely toward Nargothrond together, Finrod studying flowers, etc, along the way. Beor wishes Finrod would study him like that.
"Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture,
not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer
morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd
over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your
tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held
my feet."
----
"Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,
Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,
My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is
hardly different from myself..."
- The Song of Myself, by Walt Whitman
-----
Finrod was always in motion; Finrod sparkled with energy as if both body and mind had far too much to learn and to do in too short a space of time. Strange it was to think of an Elf running out of time, when it was Beor who really had the shorter time, between the two of them, but that was the way it felt. Time after time Finrod would rush ahead, and glance back to see Beor following, shaking his head, half in amusement, half in longing for that boundless energy.
They were alone now, wandering back across the lands to a vague destination. Finrod had talked of Nargothrond, but Beor, having never been anywhere near the lands he spoke of, could not quite grasp just how far away it was, or indeed exactly where it was. But it mattered not - he would have followed Finrod gladly to the very ends of the earth, would have walked the frozen wastelands of the North for him, or crossed the Grinding Ice itself, if he wished it.
Love was too small a word to encompass everything he felt for the Elf. 'A touch, quivering me to a new identity,' he might have said in a different Age, in a different tale. He had been torn down and remade in the glances from Finrod's eyes, so much so that he was no longer Balan, but Beor, a name chosen to reflect the fact that his whole entire self belonged to the Elf.
It was high summer, and the world was fair. They were walking through a long meadow, the sun shining down golden on the long grass. It was still an hour to midday by the light.
Finrod was ahead of him again. He could see the top of his head, more golden than the grass, and it was clear that he was crouched down to examine something. Finrod was always looking closely at everything - plants, animals, Beor. His regard at times was like a physical weight, sending fire through Beor's blood, causing instant, embarrassing arousal. Beor always felt himself flush at Finrod's glances, his body responding with eagerness to what was of course not an invitation. What would Finrod want with him, bearded, face lined with age and scars? Never beautiful even as a boy, and now so very far away from boyhood.
Finrod turned as Beor came up to him, gesturing to a spot very close to the ground. A small blue flower grew there, one that Beor had never seen before. Finrod was sketching it in a notebook balanced on his knee, looking at it from all angles carefully to get every detail just right.
"I have never seen this flower until now," he said to Beor. "I wonder if it only grows in these fields, more Southerly than the lands I have better explored."
"Perhaps," Beor said, but could not hold back a smile. "Or it may be that you missed it, before, the way you rush about so. It is very small and low to the ground, and it would not be a surprise that you could not see it from so far away."
Finrod flashed a smile at him; Beor felt the inevitable surge of arousal at that and tamped it back carefully. "If you think my head reaches lofty heights," Finrod said, "you should see my cousin Maedhros. I am little more than average height, for my people."
Since 'average height' was still apparently several measures taller than Beor, he sighed. "In your city, I will surely be like that flower, among the grasses, overtopped by all. Can it even see the sun?"
Finrod turned back to look at it again. "It does well enough," he said, gently stroking one of the petals. He looked back at Beor. "And so will you, shining-dark one, I will be sure of that. Although Nargothrond is a city underground, we do not spend all our days inside, and there are many fair places nearby that I will gladly show you, so that you may be sure you will still see the sun."
Beor's Sindarin wasn't quite up to the task of translating the phrase that Finrod used for him, then, only understanding the literal words, not the sense behind them. He hesitated to ask, but he had not learned Sindarin in the first place by failing to ask when a phrase confused him. "What does that name mean, that you said of me?"
Finrod flushed, almost imperceptibly, and set his notebook down on the grass, sitting down cross-legged next to the tiny blue flower. He looked up at Beor and Beor came forward next to him, kneeling before him, their heads at about the same height.
"When first the Sons of Feanor came to this land, ere the Sun rose or the Moon walked," Finrod said, "plants grew in the dark lands and they wondered how they flourished, without the light of the Trees to sustain them. Before there was much leisure to examine them, Maglor called them 'shining-dark' plants, for they gave forth their own faint light." He put out his hands, taking one of Beor's in his, tracing the bones and the blood vessels of it delicately. Beor shivered, trying not to let show how much the Elf's touch affected him. "The term passed out of use for plants when the Sun rose, and it changed in nature, as phrases like this will often do. It now refers to one who metaphorically puts forth their own light in the darkness." He released Beor's hand, but instead put his arms around Beor's waist, drawing the Man toward him suddenly. Beor, overwhelmed, went unresisting. "You do not need the Sun to shine, my Beor," he said, and drew Beor to the ground next to him, lying down in the grass as well, his arms around Beor, his head against Beor's shoulder.
They lay like that for some time, Beor shivering with delight, afraid to move in fear that Finrod would end this. He was almost painfully aroused; it felt he had been that way ever since seeing the Elf for the first time, waking out of most pleasant dreams to find him singing in the firelight. He was even like a god then, and Beor had almost fallen to his knees in worship and would have, if Finrod had not told him, with gestures and by means of thought directly into his mind, not to do so.
But even knowing that Finrod was one of the Children of Eru, different from himself to be true, but no less or more than that, did not stop the lightning from playing over his flesh and filtering through his blood. The urge to kiss the Elf was unavoidable, pounding in his ears, forming all thought in his mind. And still he lay quiet, feeling the warmth of Finrod against him, golden head against his shoulder, arms about him. Finrod was humming slightly, seemingly content, and to Beor's ears, it was the sweetest music, that valved voice.
"Why do you not speak your thoughts?" Finrod said at last. "They spill through you and over you, they are clear to see, and it takes no mind-reading skill to know what is in your mind." He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at Beor.
Beor gasped, his mouth falling open. He shut it again with a snap. "Am I so transparent then?"
Finrod smiled. "Have I not been? Is it not clear that I would welcome you?"
Beor glanced around hastily at the position they were currently in, and realised it to be true, it should have been obvious. Suddenly, he was unreasonably annoyed with himself for missing such clear signals. "Welcome this then, my lord!" he said, and launched himself at Finrod, reaching up and pulling the Elf down at the same time. Their lips met with some force, harder than he had intended. He gentled almost instantly, letting Finrod in. Finrod's kiss was warm and firm, Finrod's tongue against his stoking his arousal to even greater flame. He tore his mouth away, gasping, breathless.
"My lord, I will -," he panted. "This will not last long, if you keep doing that."
Finrod smiled, and it was a smile unlike any he had seen him give before, a bright lustful smile, all eagerness and joy, but with something of the wolf in it. "That is no hardship," he said, sitting up a little, pushing Beor's shirt up and stroking the soft skin of his chest and belly with maddening fingers. Beor flung out his hands on the grass, letting Finrod do with him as he pleased.
Finrod leant down and nuzzled against his lower body, mouth pressed to the cloth over his erection. Beor could not help himself, he moaned desperately, moving his hips against Finrod's lips.
Eyes heavy-lidded, Finrod looked back up at him, giving him a passionate glance through his lashes. It was clear that Finrod was just as aroused as he was, and Beor kept his eyes open, longing though he was to shut them, to better look upon the Elf.
Finrod dropped his head down, breathing hard, his forehead resting against Beor's hip, his golden hair cascading down to slide over Beor's thighs. Even the touch of his hair sparked desire in Beor, the heavy slide of it down over his prick clearly discernible.
He must have made some noise at the feeling, for Finrod looked back up again, and without hesitation pulled Beor's leggings down. He was glad he was wearing such light summer clothes; it made things much easier, and it was not hard for boots and leggings to come off entirely, and Beor was soon lying there, naked all except for his ruched-up shirt, in the warm grass. Finrod stripped his own clothes off as well, standing naked and tall for a moment over Beor.
Beor took the chance to enjoy the sight of Finrod's hard prick, thicker and paler than his own, sac hanging down beneath. His golden hair, unbound, drifted about him in the soft breeze, and Beor's mind flew back to the place where Finrod was made to be worshiped, before Finrod knelt down at his side, and kissed him for a long and tender moment.
Then Finrod, kneeling over Beor's lower legs, lay his head back down on Beor's hip; now that he had had a moment to recover his composure whilst removing Beor's clothes, he seemed to be back in exploratory mode, reaching out for Beor's prick much in the same way that he had touched the flower, earlier. His fingers ghosted lightly over the head of it, examining the shape and weight of it. Beor stirred, seeking more of a touch, but Finrod was patient and careful, bringing his finger to the slit where a small drop of fluid had formed, wiping it away and taking the finger to his mouth.
His eyes flew open wide at the taste of Beor, salty with a hint of bitterness. Finrod raised his head, glanced back up again at Beor's face once more, then took Beor by the hips and brought his mouth down over him.
Beor only barely managed to hold back a shout of delight at the overwhelming sensation of Finrod's lips and tongue on his prick. If he thought their kiss would undo him, how much more would Finrod's tongue sliding over him so deep it felt he would swallow him to the root do so? He settled for a long, agonised groan, aching to put his hands on Finrod's head, push his fingers into that golden hair, and just fuck until he was undone.
But Finrod seemed to know what he wanted, moved on him, sliding his tongue across the head of his prick, unerringly seeking all the places that made Beor curse and moan and writhe.
It was over far sooner than he would have liked; his end coming with the force of an earthquake, slamming into him so hard he saw stars behind his eyes. Finrod kept him in his mouth all through it, and soon Beor was pushing weakly at his shoulder, urging him to move away.
A wild look was in Finrod's eyes when he looked up then, and Beor knew they were not done, not yet. Finrod spat into his own hand, and deliberately took the hand, smearing what was in it between Beor's thighs. Beor shivered as he realised that it was his own spend Finrod was coating him with, and what he was planning to do.
"Beor," Finrod said, and the word was a groan. His hand almost seemed to tremble with need as he reached up, stroking Beor's beard, sliding his finger into Beor's mouth. Beor, almost without thought, sucked on that finger, and Finrod's eyes fluttered shut, head tipped back.
Finrod's hand was on his own prick, pushing it into the space where Beor's thighs separated a little, just below his balls. Finrod groaned, squeezing his eyes shut at the sensation of Beor's slick skin on him, then leaned forward, his taut belly rubbing over Beor's rapidly re-hardening prick, Finrod's prick fully between his thighs now, Finrod's hips moving, thrusting in and out.
"Beor," he groaned again, and Beor for the first time blessed the fact that Finrod was the taller, for he reached up and claimed Beor's mouth, kissing him with overwhelming force and passion. Beor was fully hard and aching by the time they broke apart, Finrod rutting eagerly into his thighs, crying out softly, their eyes meeting, and the look in Finrod's so tender, so full of passionate love that Beor was almost overcome by that alone.
Fire built back up in Beor rapidly as Finrod moved against him, trapping his prick between their bodies with delicious friction. He could feel Finrod thrusting between his legs, brushing his sac from time to time. Finrod's forehead was pressed against Beor's shoulder now, and he was crying out in an unknown language, sweet words, passionate, desperate.
Beor felt Finrod swell and pulse between his thighs; he did not think he was near to his end again, but at the sensation of Finrod spurting against him he could no longer hold back, and found he was shaking with release once more, arms coming around Finrod, holding him tight. For a long moment they lay together, Beor's hands at last in Finrod's hair, Finrod's face buried against Beor's neck, both trembling.
"Ai, Beor, ah," Finrod said at last, whispering against his throat, "is this not what you envisioned in your heart, the two of us pressed so hard together that we can hardly tell where one ends and the other begins?"
Beor had to clear his throat before he could speak. "It far exceeds my every dream, my lord," he answered, voice husky with emotion. He turned slightly, meeting Finrod's lips with his own, the light in Finrod's eyes outshining the noonday sun, the warmth of his body the sweetest blanket Beor could ever think to know.
Love was too small a word, indeed.
General Prompts: inspired by Walt Whitman's Song of Myself.
Multi-Age: Idioms & Translations.
Also inspired in part by a picture of a flowery meadow which I am not linking to because of the content of this fic.
Format: Short story - 2500 words
Genre: Slash, PWP
Rating: Explicit Adult
Warnings: Graphic sex
Characters: Beor, Finrod
Pairings: Beor/Finrod
Creators' Notes (optional): Lifetime ambition fulfilled! I've always wanted to write a story based on a certain scene in Walt Whitman's Song of Myself (quoted below).
Summary: Beor and Finrod head vaguely toward Nargothrond together, Finrod studying flowers, etc, along the way. Beor wishes Finrod would study him like that.
"Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture,
not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer
morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd
over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your
tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held
my feet."
----
"Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,
Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,
My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is
hardly different from myself..."
- The Song of Myself, by Walt Whitman
-----
Finrod was always in motion; Finrod sparkled with energy as if both body and mind had far too much to learn and to do in too short a space of time. Strange it was to think of an Elf running out of time, when it was Beor who really had the shorter time, between the two of them, but that was the way it felt. Time after time Finrod would rush ahead, and glance back to see Beor following, shaking his head, half in amusement, half in longing for that boundless energy.
They were alone now, wandering back across the lands to a vague destination. Finrod had talked of Nargothrond, but Beor, having never been anywhere near the lands he spoke of, could not quite grasp just how far away it was, or indeed exactly where it was. But it mattered not - he would have followed Finrod gladly to the very ends of the earth, would have walked the frozen wastelands of the North for him, or crossed the Grinding Ice itself, if he wished it.
Love was too small a word to encompass everything he felt for the Elf. 'A touch, quivering me to a new identity,' he might have said in a different Age, in a different tale. He had been torn down and remade in the glances from Finrod's eyes, so much so that he was no longer Balan, but Beor, a name chosen to reflect the fact that his whole entire self belonged to the Elf.
It was high summer, and the world was fair. They were walking through a long meadow, the sun shining down golden on the long grass. It was still an hour to midday by the light.
Finrod was ahead of him again. He could see the top of his head, more golden than the grass, and it was clear that he was crouched down to examine something. Finrod was always looking closely at everything - plants, animals, Beor. His regard at times was like a physical weight, sending fire through Beor's blood, causing instant, embarrassing arousal. Beor always felt himself flush at Finrod's glances, his body responding with eagerness to what was of course not an invitation. What would Finrod want with him, bearded, face lined with age and scars? Never beautiful even as a boy, and now so very far away from boyhood.
Finrod turned as Beor came up to him, gesturing to a spot very close to the ground. A small blue flower grew there, one that Beor had never seen before. Finrod was sketching it in a notebook balanced on his knee, looking at it from all angles carefully to get every detail just right.
"I have never seen this flower until now," he said to Beor. "I wonder if it only grows in these fields, more Southerly than the lands I have better explored."
"Perhaps," Beor said, but could not hold back a smile. "Or it may be that you missed it, before, the way you rush about so. It is very small and low to the ground, and it would not be a surprise that you could not see it from so far away."
Finrod flashed a smile at him; Beor felt the inevitable surge of arousal at that and tamped it back carefully. "If you think my head reaches lofty heights," Finrod said, "you should see my cousin Maedhros. I am little more than average height, for my people."
Since 'average height' was still apparently several measures taller than Beor, he sighed. "In your city, I will surely be like that flower, among the grasses, overtopped by all. Can it even see the sun?"
Finrod turned back to look at it again. "It does well enough," he said, gently stroking one of the petals. He looked back at Beor. "And so will you, shining-dark one, I will be sure of that. Although Nargothrond is a city underground, we do not spend all our days inside, and there are many fair places nearby that I will gladly show you, so that you may be sure you will still see the sun."
Beor's Sindarin wasn't quite up to the task of translating the phrase that Finrod used for him, then, only understanding the literal words, not the sense behind them. He hesitated to ask, but he had not learned Sindarin in the first place by failing to ask when a phrase confused him. "What does that name mean, that you said of me?"
Finrod flushed, almost imperceptibly, and set his notebook down on the grass, sitting down cross-legged next to the tiny blue flower. He looked up at Beor and Beor came forward next to him, kneeling before him, their heads at about the same height.
"When first the Sons of Feanor came to this land, ere the Sun rose or the Moon walked," Finrod said, "plants grew in the dark lands and they wondered how they flourished, without the light of the Trees to sustain them. Before there was much leisure to examine them, Maglor called them 'shining-dark' plants, for they gave forth their own faint light." He put out his hands, taking one of Beor's in his, tracing the bones and the blood vessels of it delicately. Beor shivered, trying not to let show how much the Elf's touch affected him. "The term passed out of use for plants when the Sun rose, and it changed in nature, as phrases like this will often do. It now refers to one who metaphorically puts forth their own light in the darkness." He released Beor's hand, but instead put his arms around Beor's waist, drawing the Man toward him suddenly. Beor, overwhelmed, went unresisting. "You do not need the Sun to shine, my Beor," he said, and drew Beor to the ground next to him, lying down in the grass as well, his arms around Beor, his head against Beor's shoulder.
They lay like that for some time, Beor shivering with delight, afraid to move in fear that Finrod would end this. He was almost painfully aroused; it felt he had been that way ever since seeing the Elf for the first time, waking out of most pleasant dreams to find him singing in the firelight. He was even like a god then, and Beor had almost fallen to his knees in worship and would have, if Finrod had not told him, with gestures and by means of thought directly into his mind, not to do so.
But even knowing that Finrod was one of the Children of Eru, different from himself to be true, but no less or more than that, did not stop the lightning from playing over his flesh and filtering through his blood. The urge to kiss the Elf was unavoidable, pounding in his ears, forming all thought in his mind. And still he lay quiet, feeling the warmth of Finrod against him, golden head against his shoulder, arms about him. Finrod was humming slightly, seemingly content, and to Beor's ears, it was the sweetest music, that valved voice.
"Why do you not speak your thoughts?" Finrod said at last. "They spill through you and over you, they are clear to see, and it takes no mind-reading skill to know what is in your mind." He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at Beor.
Beor gasped, his mouth falling open. He shut it again with a snap. "Am I so transparent then?"
Finrod smiled. "Have I not been? Is it not clear that I would welcome you?"
Beor glanced around hastily at the position they were currently in, and realised it to be true, it should have been obvious. Suddenly, he was unreasonably annoyed with himself for missing such clear signals. "Welcome this then, my lord!" he said, and launched himself at Finrod, reaching up and pulling the Elf down at the same time. Their lips met with some force, harder than he had intended. He gentled almost instantly, letting Finrod in. Finrod's kiss was warm and firm, Finrod's tongue against his stoking his arousal to even greater flame. He tore his mouth away, gasping, breathless.
"My lord, I will -," he panted. "This will not last long, if you keep doing that."
Finrod smiled, and it was a smile unlike any he had seen him give before, a bright lustful smile, all eagerness and joy, but with something of the wolf in it. "That is no hardship," he said, sitting up a little, pushing Beor's shirt up and stroking the soft skin of his chest and belly with maddening fingers. Beor flung out his hands on the grass, letting Finrod do with him as he pleased.
Finrod leant down and nuzzled against his lower body, mouth pressed to the cloth over his erection. Beor could not help himself, he moaned desperately, moving his hips against Finrod's lips.
Eyes heavy-lidded, Finrod looked back up at him, giving him a passionate glance through his lashes. It was clear that Finrod was just as aroused as he was, and Beor kept his eyes open, longing though he was to shut them, to better look upon the Elf.
Finrod dropped his head down, breathing hard, his forehead resting against Beor's hip, his golden hair cascading down to slide over Beor's thighs. Even the touch of his hair sparked desire in Beor, the heavy slide of it down over his prick clearly discernible.
He must have made some noise at the feeling, for Finrod looked back up again, and without hesitation pulled Beor's leggings down. He was glad he was wearing such light summer clothes; it made things much easier, and it was not hard for boots and leggings to come off entirely, and Beor was soon lying there, naked all except for his ruched-up shirt, in the warm grass. Finrod stripped his own clothes off as well, standing naked and tall for a moment over Beor.
Beor took the chance to enjoy the sight of Finrod's hard prick, thicker and paler than his own, sac hanging down beneath. His golden hair, unbound, drifted about him in the soft breeze, and Beor's mind flew back to the place where Finrod was made to be worshiped, before Finrod knelt down at his side, and kissed him for a long and tender moment.
Then Finrod, kneeling over Beor's lower legs, lay his head back down on Beor's hip; now that he had had a moment to recover his composure whilst removing Beor's clothes, he seemed to be back in exploratory mode, reaching out for Beor's prick much in the same way that he had touched the flower, earlier. His fingers ghosted lightly over the head of it, examining the shape and weight of it. Beor stirred, seeking more of a touch, but Finrod was patient and careful, bringing his finger to the slit where a small drop of fluid had formed, wiping it away and taking the finger to his mouth.
His eyes flew open wide at the taste of Beor, salty with a hint of bitterness. Finrod raised his head, glanced back up again at Beor's face once more, then took Beor by the hips and brought his mouth down over him.
Beor only barely managed to hold back a shout of delight at the overwhelming sensation of Finrod's lips and tongue on his prick. If he thought their kiss would undo him, how much more would Finrod's tongue sliding over him so deep it felt he would swallow him to the root do so? He settled for a long, agonised groan, aching to put his hands on Finrod's head, push his fingers into that golden hair, and just fuck until he was undone.
But Finrod seemed to know what he wanted, moved on him, sliding his tongue across the head of his prick, unerringly seeking all the places that made Beor curse and moan and writhe.
It was over far sooner than he would have liked; his end coming with the force of an earthquake, slamming into him so hard he saw stars behind his eyes. Finrod kept him in his mouth all through it, and soon Beor was pushing weakly at his shoulder, urging him to move away.
A wild look was in Finrod's eyes when he looked up then, and Beor knew they were not done, not yet. Finrod spat into his own hand, and deliberately took the hand, smearing what was in it between Beor's thighs. Beor shivered as he realised that it was his own spend Finrod was coating him with, and what he was planning to do.
"Beor," Finrod said, and the word was a groan. His hand almost seemed to tremble with need as he reached up, stroking Beor's beard, sliding his finger into Beor's mouth. Beor, almost without thought, sucked on that finger, and Finrod's eyes fluttered shut, head tipped back.
Finrod's hand was on his own prick, pushing it into the space where Beor's thighs separated a little, just below his balls. Finrod groaned, squeezing his eyes shut at the sensation of Beor's slick skin on him, then leaned forward, his taut belly rubbing over Beor's rapidly re-hardening prick, Finrod's prick fully between his thighs now, Finrod's hips moving, thrusting in and out.
"Beor," he groaned again, and Beor for the first time blessed the fact that Finrod was the taller, for he reached up and claimed Beor's mouth, kissing him with overwhelming force and passion. Beor was fully hard and aching by the time they broke apart, Finrod rutting eagerly into his thighs, crying out softly, their eyes meeting, and the look in Finrod's so tender, so full of passionate love that Beor was almost overcome by that alone.
Fire built back up in Beor rapidly as Finrod moved against him, trapping his prick between their bodies with delicious friction. He could feel Finrod thrusting between his legs, brushing his sac from time to time. Finrod's forehead was pressed against Beor's shoulder now, and he was crying out in an unknown language, sweet words, passionate, desperate.
Beor felt Finrod swell and pulse between his thighs; he did not think he was near to his end again, but at the sensation of Finrod spurting against him he could no longer hold back, and found he was shaking with release once more, arms coming around Finrod, holding him tight. For a long moment they lay together, Beor's hands at last in Finrod's hair, Finrod's face buried against Beor's neck, both trembling.
"Ai, Beor, ah," Finrod said at last, whispering against his throat, "is this not what you envisioned in your heart, the two of us pressed so hard together that we can hardly tell where one ends and the other begins?"
Beor had to clear his throat before he could speak. "It far exceeds my every dream, my lord," he answered, voice husky with emotion. He turned slightly, meeting Finrod's lips with his own, the light in Finrod's eyes outshining the noonday sun, the warmth of his body the sweetest blanket Beor could ever think to know.
Love was too small a word, indeed.
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no subject
Date: 2015-03-15 09:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-17 08:22 am (UTC)Today's Specials: 3/15/2015 B2MEM Marketplace Additions (As of 6pm CST)
Date: 2015-03-15 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-15 11:39 pm (UTC)This is very much how I have imagined Finrod from what is said of him in the texts. Curious and constantly moving.
Beautiful imagery and lovely resolution of Beor's UST. Like Moetushie said--Hot! Very hot!
I really liked the expression "shining dark" and Finrod's explantion of it's evolution.
"The term passed out of use for plants when the Sun rose, and it changed in nature, as phrases like this will often do. It now refers to one who metaphorically puts forth their own light in the darkness."
Those pesky plants without photosynthesis. If one is going to refer to them this kind of poetic reference is great. And who better to have a developed theory than Finrod.
Thank you so much for sharing these two lovely characters with us.
no subject
Date: 2015-03-17 08:45 am (UTC)I have so many thoughts on Finrod - he's been my favourite character from the First Age literally more than half my life. I love the passionate energy that clearly comes through in everything about him, especially in the Athrabeth, and his eternal curiosity.
I had a whole theory built up about *why* the plants could grow without photosynthesis but I figured if Finrod had started on that, Beor's UST would still be sadly unresolved!